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MY ROBIN 




IN HIS MOST THRILLING TONE AND WITH AN AFFECTED 
MANNER. '* 



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MY ROBIN I 



□ BY I 

I FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT I 



ILLUSTRATED BY 



ALFRED BRENNAN / 




I NEW YORK I 

I FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY | 

I PUBLISHEES I 

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Copyr^ghty IQ12, by 
Frances Hodgson Burnett 



All rights reserved 




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MY ROBIN 




MY ROBIN 

There came to me among the letters 
I received last spring one which touched 
me very closely. It was a letter full of 
delightful things but the delightful 
thing which so reached my soul was a 
question. The writer had been read- 
ing "The Secret Garden" and her 
question was this: "Did you own the 
original of the robin? He could not 
have been a mere creature of fantasy. 
I feel sure you owned him." I was 
[1] 



MY ROB 



thrilled to the centre of my being. 
Here was some one who plainly had 
been intimate with robins — English 
robins. I wrote and explained as far 
as one could in a letter what I am now 
going to relate in detail. 

I did not own the robin — he owned 
me — or perhaps we owned each other. 

He was an English robin and he was 
a person — not a mere bird. An Eng- 
lish robin differs greatly from the 
American one. He is much smaller 
and quite differently shaped. His body 
is daintily round and plump, his legs are 
delicately slender. He is a graceful 
little patrician with an astonishing al- 
lurement of bearing. His eye is large 
and dark and dewy; he wears a tight 
little red satin waistcoat on his full 
[2] 



MY ROBIN 



round breast and every tilt of his head, 
every flirt of his wing is instinct with 
dramatic significance. He is fascina- 
tingly conceited — he burns with curi- 
osity — he is determined to engage in so- 
cial relations at almost any cost and 
his raging jealousy of attention paid 
to less worthy objects than himself 
drives him at times to efforts to charm 
and distract which are irresistible. An 
intimacy with a robin — an English 
robin — is a liberal education. 

This particular one I knew in my 
rose-garden in Kent. I feel sure he 
was born there and for a summer at 
least believed it to be the world. It 
was a lovesome, mystic place, shut in 
partly by old red brick walls against 
Avhich fruit trees were trained and 
[3] 



MY ROBIN 



partly by a laurel hedge with a wood be- 
hind it. It was my habit to sit and 
write there under an aged writhen tree, 
gray with lichen and festooned with 
roses. The soft silence of it — the re- 
mote aloofness — were the most per- 
fect ever dreamed of. But let me not 
be led astray by the garden. I must be 
firm and confine myself to the Robin. 
The garden shall be another story. 

There were so many people in this 
garden — people with feathers, or fur — 
who, because I sat so quietly, did not 
mind me in the least, that it was not a 
surprising thing when I looked up one 
summer morning to see a small bird 
hopping about the grass a yard or so 
away from me. The surprise was not 
W 



MY ROBIN 



that he was there but that he stayed 
there — or rather he continued to hop — 
with short reflective-looking hops and 
that while hopping he looked at me — 
not in a furtive flighty way but rather 
as a person might tentatively regard a 
very new acquaintance. The absolute 
truth of the matter I had reason to be- 
lieve later was that he did not know I 
was a person. I may have been the 
first of my species he had seen in this 
rose-garden world of his and he thought 
I was only another kind of robin. I 
was too — though that was a secret of 
mine and nobody but myself knew it. 
Because of this fact I had the power of 
holding myself still — quite still and fill- 
ing myself with softly alluring tender- 
[5] 



M Y ROBIN 



ness of the tenderest when any httle 
wild thing came near me. 

"What do you do to make him come 
to you hke that?" some one asked me 
a month or so later. "What do you 

dor 

"I don't know what I do exactly," 
I said. "Except that I hold myself 
very still and feel like a robin." 

You can only do that with a tiny 
wild thing by being so tender of him — 
of his little timidities and feelings — so 
adoringly anxious not to startle him or 
suggest by any movement the possibil- 
ity of your being a creature who could 
hurt — ^that your very yearning to un- 
derstand his tiny hopes and fears and 
desires makes you for the time cease to 
be quite a mere human thing and gives 
[6] 



MY ROBIN 



you another and more exquisite sense 
which speaks for you without speech. 

As I sat and watched him I held my- 
self softly still and felt just that. I 
did not know he was a robin. The 
truth was that he was too young at 
that time to look like one, but I did not 
know that eitherc He was plainly not 
a thrush, or a linnet or a sparrow or 
a starling or a blackbird. He was a 
little indeterminate-colored bird and he 
had no red on his breast. And as I 
sat and gazed at him he gazed at me as 
one quite without prejudice unless it 
might be with the slightest tinge of 
favor — and hopped — and hopped — and 
hopped. 

That was the thrill and wonder of it. 
No bird, however evident his acknowl- 
[7] 



MY ROBIN 



edgement of my harmlessness, had ever 
hopped and remained. Many had 
perched for a moment in the grass or 
on a nearby bough, had trilled or 
chirped or secured a scurrying gold and 
green beetle and flown away. But 
none had stayed to inquire — to reflect 
— even to seem — if one dared be so bold 
as to hope such a thing — ^to make mys- 
terious, almost occult advances towards 
intimacy. Also I had never before 
heard of such a thing happening to any 
one howsoever bird loving. Birds are 
creatures who must be wooed and it 
must be delicate and careful wooing 
which allures them into friendship. 

I held my soft stillness. Would he 
stay ? Could it be that the last hop was 
nearer? Yes, it was. The moment was 
[8] 



MY ROBIN 



a breathless one. Dare one believe 
that the next was nearer still — and the 
next — and the next — and that the two 
yards of distance had become scarcely 
one — and that within that radius he 
was soberly hopping round my very 
feet with his quite unafraid eye full 
upon me. This was what was hap- 
pening. It may not seem exciting but 
it was. That a little wild thing should 
come to one unasked was of a thrilling- 
ness touched with awe. 

Without stirring a muscle I began to 
make low, soft, little sounds to him — 
very low and very caressing indeed — 
softer than one makes to a baby. I 
wanted to weave a spell — to estab- 
lish mental communication — to make 
Magic. And as I uttered the tiny 
[9] 



MY ROBIN 



sounds he hopped nearer and nearer. 

"Oh! to think that you will come as 
near as that!" I whispered to him. 
"You know. You know that nothing 
in the world would make me put out 
my hand or startle you in the least tini- 
est way. You know it because you are 
a real person as well as a lovely — 
lovely little bird thing. You know it 
because you are a soul." 

Because of this first morning I knew 
— years later — that this was what Mis- 
tress Mary thought when she bent down 
in the Long Walk and "tried to make 
robin sounds." 

I said it all in a whisper and I think 
the words must have sounded like robin 
sounds because he listened with inter- 
est and at last — miracle of miracles as 
[10] 



MY ROBIN 

it seemed to me — he actually flut- 
tered up on to a small shrub not two 
yards away from my knee and sat there 
as one who was pleased with the topic 
of conversation. 

I did not move of course, I sat still 
and waited his pleasure. Not for mines 
of rubies would I have lifted a finger. 

I think he stayed near me altogether 
about half an hour. Then he disap- 
peared. Where or even exactly when 
I did not know. One moment he was 
hopping among some of the rose bushes 
and then he was gone. 

This, in fact, was liis little mysterious 
way from first to last. Through all the 
months of our delicious intimacy he 
never let me know where he lived. I 
knew it was in the rose-garden — but 

[11] 



MY ROBIN 



that was all. His extraordinary free- 
dom from timorousness was something 
to think over. After reflecting upon 
him a good deal I thought I had 
reached an explanation. He had been 
born in the rose-garden and being of 
a home-loving nature he had declined 
to follow the rest of his family when 
they had made their first flight over the 
wall into the rose-walk or over the 
laurel hedge into the pheasant cover be- 
hind. He had stayed in the rose world 
and then had felt lonely. Without 
father or mother or sisters or brothers 
desolateness of spirit fell upon him. He 
saw a creature — I insist on believing 
that he thought it another order of 
robin — and approached to see what it 
would say. 

[12] 



MY ROBIN 



Its whole bearing was confidence in- 
spiring. It made softly alluring — if 
unexplainable — sounds. He felt its 
friendliness and affection. It was curi- 
ous to look at and far too large for any 
ordinary nest. It plainly could not fly. 
But there was not a shadow of inimical 
sentiment in it. Instinct told him that. 
It admired him, it wanted him to re- 
main near, there was a certain comfort 
in its caressing atmosphere. He liked 
it and felt less desolate. He would re- 
turn to it again. 

The next day summer rains kept me 
in the house. The next I went to the 
rose-garden in the morning and sat 
down under my tree to work. I had 
not been there half an hour when I felt 
I must lift my eyes and look. A little 
[13] 



MY ROBIN 



indeterminate-colored bird was hopping 
quietly about in the grass — quite aware 
of me as his dew-bright eye manifested. 
He had come again — of intention — be- 
cause we were mates. 

It was the beginning of an intimacy 
not to be described unless one filled a 
small volume. From that moment we 
never doubted each other for one 
second. He knew and I knew. Each 
morning when I came into the rose- 
garden he came to call on me and 
discover things he wanted to know con- 
cerning robins of my size and unusual 
physical conformation. He did not 
understand but he was attracted by me. 
Each day I held myself still and tried 
to make robin sounds expressive of 
[14] 



MY ROBIN 



adoring tenderness and he came each 
day a little nearer. At last arrived a day 
when as I softly left my seat and moved 
about the garden he actually quietly 
hopped after me. 

I wish I could remember exactly 
what length of time elapsed before I 
knew he was really a robin. An orni- 
thologist would doubtless know but I do 
not. But one morning I was bending 
over a bed of Laurette Messimy roses 
and I became aware that he had arrived 
in his usual mysterious way without 
warning. He was standing in the grass 
and when I turned my eyes upon him 
I only just saved myself from starting 
— which would have meant disaster. I 
saw upon his breast the first dawning 
[15] 



MY ROBIN 



of a flush of color — more tawny than 
actual red at that stage — but it hinted 
at revelations. 

"Further subterfuge is useless," I 
said to him. "You are betrayed. You 
are a robin." 

And he did not attempt to deny it 
either then or at any future time. 
In less than two weeks he revealed a 
tight, glossy little bright red satin waist- 
coat and with it a certain youthful ma- 
turity such as one beholds in the wearer 
of a first dress suit. His movements 
were more brisk and certain. He be- 
gan to make little flights and little 
sounds though for some time he made 
no attempt to sing. Instead of appear- 
ing suddenlj^ in the grass at my feet, 
a heavenly little rush of wings would 
[16] 




A HEAVENLY RUSH OF WINGS 
[17] 



MY ROBIN 



bring him to a bough over my head or 
a twig quite near me where he would tilt 
daintily, taking his silent but quite re- 
sponsive part in the conversations which 
always took place between us. It was 
I who talked — telling him how I loved 
him — how satin red his waistcoat was 
— how large and bright his eyes — how 
delicate and elegant his slender legs. 
I flattered him a great deal. He 
adored flattery and I am sure he loved 
me most when I told him that it was 
impossible to say anything which could 
flatter him. It gave him confidence in 
my good taste. 

One morning — a heavenly sunny one 

— I was conversing with him by the 

Laurette Messimys again and he was 

evidently much pleased with the things 

[19] 



:M Y ROBIN 



I said. Perhaps he liked my hat which 
was a large white one with a wreath 
of roses round its crown. I saw him 
look at it and I gently hinted that I had 
worn it in the hope that he would ap- 
prove. I had broken off a handful of 
coral pink Laurettes and was arranging 
them idly when — he spread his wings 
in a sudden upward flight — a tiny swift 
flight which ended — among the roses on 
my hat — the very hat on my head. 

Did I make myself still then? Did 
I stir by a single hairbreadth? Who 
does not know? I scarcely let myself 
breathe. I could not believe that such 
a thing of pure joy could be true. 

But in a minute I realized that he at 
least was not afraid to move. Pie was 
perfectly at home. He hopped about 
[20] 



MY ROBIN 



the brim and examined the roses with 
delicate pecks. That I was under the 
hat apparently only gave him confi- 
dence. He knew me as well as that. 
He stayed until he had learned all he 
wished to know about garden hats and 
then he lightly flew away. 

From that time each day drew us 
closer to each other. He began to perch 
on twigs only a few inches from my 
face and hsten while I whispered to him 
— ^yes, he listened and made answer 
with chirps. Nothing else would de- 
scribe it. As I wrote he would alight 
on my manuscript paper and try to 
read. Sometimes I thought he was a 
little offended because he found my 
handwriting so bad that he could not 
understand it. He would take crumbs 
[21] 



MY R O W I X 



out of my hand, he would ahght on my 
chair or my shoulder. The instant I 
opened the little door in the leaf-cov- 
ered garden wall I would be greeted 
by the darling little rush of wings and 
he was beside me. And he always 
came from nowhere and disappeared 
into space. 

That, through the whole summer — 
was his rarest fascination. Perhaps 
he was not a real robin. Perhaps he 
was a fairy. Who knows? Among 
the many house parties staying with me 
he was a subject of thrilled interest. 
People knew of him who had not seen 
him and it became a custom with callers 
to say: "May we go into the rose- 
garden and see The Robin?" One of 
my American guests said he was un- 
[22] 



MY ROBIN 



canny and called him "The Goblin 
Robin." No one had ever seen a thing 
so curiously human — so much more 
than mere bird. 

When I took callers to the rose- 
garden he was exquisitely polite. He 
always came when I stood under my 
tree and called — but he never at such 
times met me with liis rush to the little 
door. He would perch near me and 
talk but there was a difference. Cer- 
tain exquisite intimate charms he kept 
for me alone. 

I wondered when he would begin to 
sing. One morning the sun being 
strong enough to pierce through the 
leaves of my tree I had a large Japa- 
nese tent umbrella arranged so that it 
shaded my table as I wrote. Suddenly 
[23] 



MY ROBIN 



I heard a robin song which sounded as 
if it were being trilled from some tree 
at a little distance from where I sat. 
It was so pretty that I leaned forward 
to see exactly where the singer perched. 
I made a delicious discovery. He was 
not on a tree at all. He was perched 
upon the very end of one of the bamboo 
ribs of my big flowery umbrella. He 
was my own Robin and there he sat sing- 
ing to me his first tiny song — showing 
me that he had found out how to do it. 

The effect of singing at a distance 
was produced by the curious fact that 
he was singing with his hill closed, his 
darling scarlet throat puffed out and 
tremulous with the captive trills. 

Perhaps a robin's first song is always 
of this order. I do not know. I only 
[24] 



MY ROBIN 



know that this was his "earher manner." 
My enraptured delight I expressed to 
him in my most eloquent phrases. I 
praised him — I flattered him. I made 
him believe that no robin had really 
ever sung before. He was much 
pleased and flew down on to the table 
to hear all about it and incite me to fur- 
ther effort. 

In a few days he had learned to sing 
perfectly, not with the low distant- 
sounding note but with open beak and 
clear brilliant little roulades and trills. 
He grew prouder and prouder. When 
he saw I was busy he would tilt on a 
nearby bough and call me with flirta- 
tious, provocative outbreaking of song. 
He knew that it was impossible for any 
one to resist him — any one in the world. 
[25] 



MY ROBIN 



Of course I would get up and stand be- 
neath his tree with my face upturned 
and tell him that his charm, his beauty, 
his fascination and my love were beyond 
the power of words to express. He 
knew that would happen and revelled 
in it. His tiny airs and graces, his de- 
vices to attract and absorb attention 
was unending. He invented new ones 
every day and each was more enslaving 
than the last. 

Could it be that he was guilty — when 
he met other robins — of boasting of his 
conquest of me and of my utter sub- 
jugation? I cannot believe it possible. 
Also I never saw other robins accost 
him or linger in their passage through 
the rose-garden to exchange civilities. 
And yet a very strange thing occurred 
[26] 



MY ROBIN 



on one occasion. I was sitting at my 
table expecting him and heard a famil- 
iar chirp. When I looked up he was 
atilt upon the branch of an apple tree 
near by. I greeted him with little 
whistles and twitters thinking of course 
that he would fly down to me for our 
usual conversation. But though he 
chirped a reply and put his head on 
one side engagingly he did not move 
from his bough. 

"What is the matter with you?" I 
said. "Come down — come down, little 
brother!" 

But he did not come. He only 
sidled and twittered and stayed where 
he was. This was so extraordinary 
that I got up and went to him. As 
I looked a curious doubt came upon 
[27] 



MY U O B I N 



me. He looked like Tweetie — (which 
had become his baptismal name) he 
tilted his head and flirted and twittered 
after the manner of Tweetie — but — 
could it be that he was not what he pre- 
tended to be? Could he be a stranger 
bird? That seemed out of the question 
as no stranger bird would have com- 
ported himself with such familiarity. 
No stranger surely would have come so 
near and addressed me with such inti- 
mate twitterings and well-known airs 
and graces. I was mystified beyond 
measure. I exerted all my powers to 
lure him from his branch but descend 
from it he would not. He listened and 
smiled and flirted his tail but he stayed 
where he was. 

"Listen," I said at last. "I don't be- 
[28] 



MY ROBIN 



lieve in you. There is a mystery here. 
You pretend you know me and yet you 
act as if you were afraid of me — just 
like a common bird who is made of noth- 
ing but feathers. I don't beheve you 
are Tweetie at all. You are an Im- 
postor!" 

Believable or not, just at that mo- 
ment w^hen I stood there under the 
bough arguing, reproacliing and be- 
guiling by turns and puzzled beyond 
measure — out of the Nowhere darted a 
little scarlet flame of frenzy — Tweetie 
himself — with his feathers ruffled and 
on fire with fury. The robin on the 
branch actually was an Impostor and 
Tweetie had discovered him red-breasted 
if not red-handed with crime. Oh! the 
sight it was to behold liim in his tiny 
[29] 



MY ROB 



Berseker rage at his impudent rival. 
He flew at him, he beat him, he smacked 
him, he pecked him, he shrieked bad 
language at him, he drove him from the 
branch — from the tree, from one tree 
after another as the little traitor tried to 
take refuge — he drove him from the 
rose-garden — over the laurel hedge 
and into the pheasant cover in the wood. 
Perhaps he killed him and left him slain 
in the bracken. I could not see. But 
having beaten him once and forever he 
came back to me, panting — all fluffed 
up — and with blood thirst only just dy- 
ing in his eye. He came down on to 
my table — out of breath as he agita- 
tedly rearranged his untid}^ feathers — 
and indignant — almost unreconcilable 
because I had been such an undiscrimi- 
[30] 



MY ROBIN 



nating and feeble-minded imbecile as to 
be for one moment deceived. 

His righteous wrath was awful to be- 
hold. I was so frightened that I felt 
quite pale. With those wiles of the 
serpent which every noble woman finds 
herself forced to employ at times I en- 
deavored to pacify him. 

"Of course I did not really believe he 
was You," I said tremulously. "He 
was your inferior in every respect. His 
waistcoat was not nearly so beautiful as 
yours. His eyes were not so soul com- 
pelling. His legs were not nearly so 
elegant and slender. And there was an 
expression about liis beak which I dis- 
trusted from the first. You heard me 
tell him he was an Impostor." 

He began to listen — he became 
[31] 



MY ROBIN 



calmer — he relented. He kindly ate a 
crumb out of my hand. 

We began mutually to understand 
the infamy of the situation. The Im- 
postor had been secretly watching us. 
He had envied us our happiness. Into 
his degenerate mind had stolen the 
darkling and criminal thought that he 
— Audacious Scoundrel — ^might impose 
upon me by pretending he was not 
merely "a robin" but "The Robin"— 
Tweetie himself and that he might sup- 
plant him in my affections. But he 
had been confounded and cast into outer 
darkness and again we were One. 

I will not attempt to deceive. He 
was j ealous beyond bounds. It was nec- 
essary for me to be most discreet in my 
demeanor towards the head gardener 
[32] 



]M Y ROBIN 



with whom I was obhged to consult 
frequently. When he came into the 
rose-garden for orders Tweetie at once 
appeared. 

He followed us, hopping in the grass 
or from rose bush to rose bush. No 
word of ours escaped him. If our con- 
versation on the enthralling subjects of 
fertilizers and aphides seemed in its ear- 
nest absorption to verge upon the emo- 
tional and tender he interfered at once. 
He commanded my attention. He 
perched on nearby boughs and endeav- 
ored to distract me. He fluttered 
about and called me with chirps. His 
last resource was always to fly to the 
topmost twig of an apple tree and be- 
gin to sing his most brilliant song in his 
most thrilling tone and with an affected 
[33] 



MY ROBIN 



manner. Naturally we were obliged to 
listen and talk about him. Even old 
Barton's weather-beaten apple face 
would wrinkle into smiles. 

*'He's doin' that to make us look at 
him," he would say. "That's what he's 
doin' it for. He can't abide not to be 
noticed." 

But it was not only his vanity which 
drew him to me. He loved me. The 
low song trilled in his little pulsating 
scarlet throat was mine. He sang it 
only to me — and he would never sing it 
when any one else was there to hear. 
When we were quite alone with only 
roses and bees and sunshine and silence 
about us, when he swung on some spray 
quite close to me and I stood and talked 
to him in whispers — then he would an- 
[34] 



MY ROBIN 



swer me — each time I paused — with the 
little "far away" sounding trills — the 
sweetest, most wonderful little sounds 
in the world. A clever person who 
knew more of the habits of birds than I 
did told me a most curious thing. 

"That is his little mating song," he 
said. "You have inspired a hopeless 
passion in a robin." 

Perhaps so. He thought the rose- 
garden was the world and it seemed to 
me he never went out of it during the 
summer months. At whatsoever hour 
I appeared and called him he came out 
of bushes but from a different point 
each time. In late autumn however, 
one afternoon I saw him fly to me from 
over a wall dividing the enclosed garden 
from the open ones. I thought he 
[35] 



MY 11 O B I K 



looked guilty and fluttered when he 
alighted near me. I think he did not 
want me to know. 

*'You have been making the acquaint- 
ance of a young lady robin," I said to 
him. "Perhaps you are already en- 
gaged to her for the next season." 

He tried to persuade me that it was 
not true but I felt he was not entirely 
frank. 

After that it was plain that he had 
discovered that the rose-garden was 
not all the world. He knew about the 
other side of the wall. But it did not 
absorb him altogether. He was sel- 
dom absent when I came and he never 
failed to answer my call. I talked to 
him often about the young lady robin 
but though he showed a gentlemanly 
[36] 



MY ROBIN 



reticence on the subject I knew quite 
well he loved me best. He loved my 
robin sounds, he loved my whispers, his 
dewy dark eyes looked into mine as if 
he knew we two understood strange 
tender things others did not. 

I was only a mere tenant of the beau- 
tiful place I had had for nine years and 
that winter the owner sold the estate. 
In December I was to go to Montreux 
for a couple of months; in March I 
was to return to Maytham and close 
it before leaving it finally. Until I left 
for Switzerland I saw my robin every 
day. Before I went away I called him 
to me and told him where I was going. 

He was such a little thing. Two or 
three months might seem a lifetime to 
him. He might not remember me so 
[37] 



MY 11 O B I N 



long. I was not a real robin. I was 
only a human being. I said a great 
many things to him — ^wondering if he 
would even be in the garden when I 
came back. I went away wondering. 
When I returned from the world of 
winter sports, of mountain snows, of 
tobogganing and skis I felt as if I had 
been absent a long time. There had 
been snow even in Kent and the park 
and gardens were white. I arrived in 
the evening. The next morning I threw 
on my red frieze garden cloak and went 
down the flagged terrace and the Long 
Walk through the walled gardens to 
the beloved place where the rose bushes 
stood dark and slender and leafless 
among the whiteness. I went to my 
own tree and stood under it and called. 
[38] 



MY ROBIN 

"Are you gone," I said in my heart; 
"are you gone, little Soul? Shall I 
never see you again?" 

After the call I waited — and I had 
never waited before. The roses were 
gone and he was not in the rose-world. 
I called again. The call was some- 
times a soft whistle as near a robin sound 
as I could make it — sometimes it was 
a chirp — sometimes it was a quick clear 
repetition of "Sweet! Sweet! Sweetie" 
— which I fancied he liked best. I 
made one after the other — and then — 
something scarlet flashed across the 
lawn, across the rose-walk — over the 
wall and he was there. He had not for- 
gotten, it had not been too long, he 
alighted on the snowy brown grass at 
my feet. 

[39] 



MY ROBIN 



Then I knew he was a little Soul and 
not only a bird and the real parting 
which must come in a few weeks' time 
loomed up before me a strange tragic 
thing. 



I do not often allow myself to think 
of it. It was too final. And there was 
nothing to be done. I was going 
thousands of miles across the sea. A 
little warm thing of scarlet and brown 
feathers and pulsating trilling throat 
lives such a brief life. The little soul 
in its black dew-drop eye — one knows 
nothing about it. For myself I some- 
times believe strange things. We two 
were something weirdly near to each 
other. 

At the end I went down to the bare 
[40] 



MY U O B I N 



world of roses one soft damp day and 
stood under the tree and called him for 
the last time. He did not keep me 
waiting and he flew to a twig very near 
my face. I could not write all I said 
to him. I tried with all my heart to ex- 
plain and he answered me — between his 
listenings — with the "far away" love 
note. I talked to him as if he knew 
all I knew. He put his head on one 
side and listened so intently that I felt 
that he understood. I told him that I 
must go away and that we should not 
see each other again and I told him why. 
"But you must not think when I do 
not come back it is because I have for- 
gotten you," I said. "Never since I 
was born have I loved anything as I 
have loved you — excej)t my two babies. 
[41] 



MY ROBIN 



Never shall I love anything so much 
again so long as I am in the world. 
You are a little Soul and I am a little 
Soul and we shall love each other for- 
ever and ever. We won't say Good- 
bye. We have been too near to each 
other — nearer than human beings are. 
I love you and love you and love you — 
little Soul." 

Then I went out of the rose-garden. 
I shall never go into it again. 




[42] 



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